Gone Are The Days
by Little Obsessions
Summary: Lucius has been granted his 'liberty' from Azkaban by The Dark Lord but Narcissa know her family are in grave danger...they are now dispensible to The Dark Lord. DEATHLY HALLOWS SPOLIERS. All Belongs to JK Rowling, nothing is mine...
1. A Strength So Faltered

Lucius Malfoy sat up in his bed, disentangling himself from the silk sheets; he found himself regretting the fact that he was alive, because something awful had stirred inside him and he could barely suppress. He sat up slowly, almost painfully for he was still recovering. His torso was bruised and tightened malevolently if ever he moved an inch. His skin was coarse and dry and brittle, his hair dull and lank and lifeless. He walked across the room, closing the door behind him as he entered the bathroom, silently casting a look back to the bed where his wife lay sleeping. Ten minutes later he emerged, his blonde hair dripping with shower water, a towel wrapped around his lean waste. His wife was awake now, her face propped up on her hand, her beautiful hair enticingly tangled as she stared at him.

"Good morning," she greeted half gentle, half cold. Something in her eyes, something quiet and dormant and altogether fragile was showing itself and he knew himself that such a feeling existed within him. He smiled a nod of acknowledgement in her direction; a smile he hoped showed his adoration and noted how she looked uncommonly small in their cavernous bed and incidentally, how tired she looked.

"You look tired," he commented softly, lifting the clothes that had been laid over the chair by his elf with extreme carefulness and gentleness, so not a crease could possibly exist and save the elf from to early a punishment. But he couldn't bring himself to think that such a thing mattered, there was something that had snapped inside him and released a fear so ruthless that he could physically feel it gnawing at his heart.

"Is that a compliment?" she snapped but her voice broke and her eyes met his, pleadingly. Should he try to talk to her, or was he so afraid of his own fear pouring out and infecting her that he could barely look upon that pained but beautiful face. He watched her watching him dress, understanding every last though that whirred in her brain. She raised herself out of bed after a moment, having tired of divesting her attention on him, or perhaps she could no longer bear to, and made her way to the huge glass doors, and pushing with as much strength as possible opened them. A swift breeze flew into the room, bringing with it a chill so overwhelming that it made him shiver in his state of being half dressed, Dementors were breeding. But he wasn't going to stop her, he was a cold, hard cruel man but one person in the world he understood was his wife and he understood her exit from their stifling chamber as a desperate bid for solitude. He dressed slowly, carefully so not to put anymore pressure on his pained body, and tied his hair before he went to the balcony, just to hear her voice before he left to make sure the house was presentable, the grounds suitable. Then he decided he would go down to the river and sit all day, try to clear his head and take in some air.

"I shall see you for dinner?" It was a question, not a statement that he asked her. He paused for a moment, wondering just how it had come to this and why indeed, that which had once been a statement had turned into a question. Then he remembered… and he swallowed that still lingering taste of the grimy cells of Azkaban, and through his head flashed those days where she clung to him with the fluidity of smoke and they had loved each other.

"Yes," she did not turn; he didn't expect it from her anyway. But he watched her shoulder blades, her indescribably beautiful skin that he had once had permission to touch, at will – it seemed now, a distant memory. He could still smell her though, if she was near enough he could imagine how it felt and not only imagine, but remember. He dared inch closer, so close that she could no doubt feel his breath on the nape of her neck. But a part of his ruined mind told him he had no right to touch her. He wanted to reach out, touch that gorgeous skin and run his fingers through her hair. Why did they still sleep in the same bed, why did she still let him curl up beside her like a needy boy when he could feel she detested him? He wanted to let the words tumble out, but he didn't. Instead he stood there in the frozen morning air, thick with despair and darkness, hand outstretched towards her but not quite touching her bare shoulder. He willed himself to turn, to go and try and gain some steady footing and dispel this sudden regret of his actions…but he stayed. The delicious thought of being granted permission to hold her as he had what seemed like years ago (though it was just over a year) was so teasing, so wrong.

But he wouldn't tell her he loved her, it wasn't what she wanted to hear. He sighed gently and lowered his hand, very aware that that moment had disappeared and that he was only a man, who had failed the one thing he had ever cared for.

"Goodbye, Narcissa".

"Goodbye, Lucius…" Those words were so heavy, rolling with her exquisite accent were uncomfortable and not suited to how she once was. How they had been once.

"Lucius-" her crystalline voice, so eloquent, cold and dangerous faltered, "Lucius, where are you going?"

She turned on the spot and her voice was beseeching him, begging him, torturing him. That self-assured Lucius, the one who had existed when they were first married had disappeared and now, a man stripped of all of what he used to be stood before her, looking at her with horror in his eyes. They knew they could not go on like this, but neither could say it.

"He is coming… I wanted to prepare the house and grounds, enchantments, charms…" he could not continue, he could not bring himself to hurt her anymore than he had, he held out a hand, covered in cuts and bruises as if begging her forgiveness, "He is coming here and he told me to be prepared… this is the new Headquarters."

This blow did not appear to be such to her, "Lucius…" It was a whimper, a desperate, pitiful whimper and he could not stand to see her like this. She reached out to him, taking the hand he offered,

"I will follow you", she whispered, "But we cannot do this anymore. I am asking you to make a choice with me Lucius because we will die at his hands and-" tears cascaded down her pallid cheeks, "And I cannot do this to my son, you can choose to stay – to follow. I will not, I cannot. I will do nothing to assist him. Will you, Lucius, will you assist _me_ in this."

Perhaps if, in another time this question had existed, he would have faltered, he would have told her she was ridiculous and that they could not lose. They were purebloods, they were supreme and even though he still believed that, he was struggling to see how this destruction of his family was living up to his expectations of supremacy.

He looked at her, startled by her willingness to take control of something she would have expected him to do, "I need you to help me…I need you now to prove to me your love for me Lucius, I need you to defend our family."

He nodded quietly, searching her eyes with intense depth that almost made her want to turn away. He could see this before she did and he grasped her shoulders tightly, holding her. "Cissy, my darling Narcissa," the affection was urgent, rushed in a breath as he held her before him, "I love you and I should have told you, every day! I should-"

"But that was not what I wanted," she said pointedly, "I did not need your words to know Lucius and your actions always sufficed but now I need your actions more than ever. He can stay here, he can-"

"Hush," he whispered, shushing her with a gentle finger, "It is cold out her, and you are shivering," she had hardly noticed but she was shaking in his arms "Let's go inside, and allow me to hold you, Narcissa?"

It did not come out as he had planned to sound gallant and strong but as a plea, the plea of a child so starved of affection as the words strangled in his throat. She took him by the hand, almost maternal in her action and led him through the doors that he closed behind her, to the bed, where she laid down and he walked to the other side. Finding her cold hand, he took it in his own while he pulled her against him, her body flush against his own in the silence of the room. He rubbed a gentle thumb over her surprisingly modest wedding band, over her stunning hands and onto her beautiful arm, over her shoulder and neck and back down to return to her hand, where it settled on her hip.

"What can we do?" he whispered, "How can we do this? How can we get out of this?"

"We can't," she said despairingly," We have to play along, until the last possible moment – until the battle, which is inevitable," at this she shivered and he pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair, "We will lose Draco, if we carry on like this, Lucius. The Dark Lord will not forgive us any mistake; we must please him as long as we can – then turn on him. We must do everything in our power."

"I – yes we must," he sat up suddenly, "I have failed you Cissy. I have led you into this. My damn stupidity…why did I ever join them? I am a fool, a power-hungry fool."

He sat up suddenly, a frantic, desperate horror in his usually empty eyes, "I was so smug, so sure of the supremacy of my race, so much better than others and look what he has reduced me to!"

He was raging, he was frantic. He flew across the room, throwing the vase of flowers from her dresser, smashing the mirror above the fire place, "He has reduced me to nothing! He has made me a prisoner in my home, made a mockery of my name!"

He slowed and stopped abruptly, stared at him once lily-white hands, "I have no liberty."

"You have me," she whispered, suddenly, with a fervent passion that stopped him in his tracks as she sat up, "And we, the three of us, have each other, Lucius. We must try to please him, we must try to please him…" she looked up, and then she stood and walked towards him, "We welcome him to our home, we do his bidding, we try to please him, and we try to stay safe and together."

"Are you afraid?" He asked suddenly, perching himself on the side of their huge bed, holding one of the ornate posts as he hung his head in his hands, near tears.

"Yes, I thought he was merciful, but he took you away from me and then, what he done to Draco…" she sobbed slightly, and he reached for her and lifted his hands to his lips, "He does not care and we are not in his favor, we are not productive to him, we are of no use to him. We are dispensable."

"And that is entirely my fault, why do you not hate me?"

"When we married," she said violently, angrily as if he had offended her by asking her, "I promised to stand by you, I will. I love you, Lucius. You are acting weak because you are tired and broken and desperate. I do not love that man, I love the man I married and in promising to stay with me, to keep me safe you have became that man again this morning. I want you to touch me Lucius," she took his hand and put it on her rear, forcibly as if she knew how inadequate he felt. He suddenly felt familiar to her again and wanted to make love to her, to touch every inch of her skin, to curl her in his arms.

"I want you to hold me and kiss me and go back to when we were at school, when you smiled arrogantly and ran your fingers through that blonde hair and kissed me in front of everyone. When you wanted to make love to me all the time, when you were so assured of yourself – when we trusted our self to get through this. Whatever happened in the Department of Mysteries I forgive you for, I forgive you for your absence, I forgive you for the pain you have put me through but I will not forgive you for giving up on us, on our family. On what we've always been proud of – our ability to survive. If you do that, I cannot…"

He understood and he stood then, opening his arms to her, planting his mouth solidly on her soft lips in a desperate attempt to transport her back to the Slytherin common room, to their wedding night, to quiet meandering days in their gardens.

"Trust me to make it better?"

"Yes," she whispered against his cheek, her hot breath on his face, "Yes, Lucius."

He held her then, desperately pushing her back onto the bed and holding her ferociously tight as they plunged to the bed, the silk sheets encasing them in a desperate enchantment.


	2. A Depth So Deep

_Hey, everyone thank you so much for the reviews – they mean so much! __Lellow__ thank you, your review was lovely and I just felt compelled to answer you and hope you will like this as much. I don't think Lucius is entirely like that either but I think he would be so traumatized, so desperate that he seen himself as nothing other than that. And in the situation he is in, he would be very disorientated... More over, he tells his wife everything. __I totally agree with you, I think your idea of Lucius is just like mine but I decided this time, he would be different and even if he truly didn't think he was a power hungry fool, he would be momentarily convinced of it. _

The Dark Lord had gone now and she sat on her chaise, her legs curled up to her chin. She had sent her son outside for fear he might not be able to stand much more, she had told him to do what he wanted, 'Fly your broom, ride the winged horses, go to your den. Just get out of the drawing room.' She regretted her tone now but not at the time, she couldn't deal with him, her little boy reminding her how precariously dangerous their situation was. She sighed desperately to the room at large, trying to hold back tears. She tossed her hair back, it was damp with sweat. Her head hurt, her body ached with a burning pain. The Dark Lord had not kept his punishment exclusively to Lucius. Their Manor was silent once more, only she sighs and the rain beating against the windows. The Dark Lord had used the Crucio on her a mere once and yet it felt like her body was on fire. But Lucius, he had taken Lucius away from her. No doubt to the cellar. She was shaking, she was frightened. She was regretting it now; the conversation herself and her husband had had all those weeks ago – when they had decided they would betray the Dark Lord at some point. At their best possible advantage but that looked so far, so distant and she was so very angry at her husband. He had returned to that glint of desperation today, instead of trying to get his family out of this situation. He had been so pleased when they captured Potter and a part of her had been glad too, they had nearly gained a reprieve but she hated Lucius for betraying her so thoroughly. A huge part of her, though understood his desperation, she seen it as a way out and so had he. But that Potter, that damn Potter had got away. And The Dark Lord, what had he done to Lucius? She hadn't seen him in two hours, she hadn't heard a whimper. Maybe he had taken him to the dungeons, to the cellar, the attic. She wanted to move, wanted to go to him, to find him. But she couldn't walk; she feared she couldn't even crawl.

The only person, the only creature, she sniffed disdainfully to herself was that fowl Wormtail remaining, skulking no doubt somewhere in their Manor, looking at the things he could never afford. She would not embarrass herself enough to lose it in front of him and in fear of him walking in, into her own private space she wiped her face quickly, trying to get rid of the tears but they wouldn't stop. They wouldn't.

"Goddamn!" she cried out, her hands on her head. Nothing could stop them, never had she let go like this, and never had she cried so painfully. She leaned over, pain in her abdomen as she curled her body onto itself raising herself onto her knees, she screamed again and again until her voice gave out.

She was ashamed of herself, of how her thoughts and plans against the Dark Lord made her such a treacherous person, how her love for her husband made her so weak. She was meant to be the picture of resilience, futile beauty. She was not a strumpet like her sister, or a blood traitor like her other. She was meant to defend what was right in the eyes of the Blacks and yet, she was a Malfoy. She wasn't sure now, she wasn't beautiful, and she was breaking along with her ghost of a husband and her petrified son.

"Narcissa," a hiss, a delicately questioning voice came from the shadows in the room.

She looked up to see her husband, stooping over, holding a bleeding wound in his arm and sporting a swollen and bloodied face. Never had she cried like this in front of him. She shook her head at him from behind a vale of hair wanting him to stay where he was so she could be as far away from him as possible. Not that he would indulge her at all. He didn't look well either and as he drew near, she could see blood on his face, dripping from his lip. There was a gash in his forehead but he seemed undeterred, though he walked slightly askew, wobbling on his feet. He staggered as he reached her, falling slightly onto the chaise. He was a pitiful sight through her tearing eyes as he leaned against the richly brocaded back rest.

"Oh, Cissy…" he smiled weakly, "Narcissa do not cry." He reached out a bloodied hand, touching her shoulder gently, as if she might break, to pull her to lie against him.

She leaned into him, against his chest as she continued to sob. She sounded painful, sore as if she was cracking inside. She didn't have any more strength and he had already asked too much of her, so he just held her. This felt strange, such romantic and consoling behaviour towards her. Usually it was a lingering look, a touch under a table. The only time they had displayed their affection was in their chamber. He patted her hair, kissed her cheek. She calmed after a while, her body stilled to shake but her head lay on his bare chest. He could feel her breath there against his heart.

"Narcissa, are you calm?" He questioned softly, stroking her damp hair.

She lifted her face to him like a child who had lost their innocence, though he had taken Narcissa's innocence from her many years ago.

She nodded slightly, "I'm sore," she murmured and lay back against him.

He was starting to feel numb but he daren't move. The dark lord had cursed him until he had writhed on the floor, banging against the rough walls and scraping off the floor. Then the Dark Lord had cut his hands and bashed his head with flicks of his wand until his eyes bleared and his face had felt like it would explode along with his heart and head. Then the Dark Lord had Dissaparated and he lay there, he wasn't sure for how long before he heard her screaming, over and over again. He had dragged his body up, it was still strong with muscle and sinew but he had lost it somewhat over the last year. He had got to the drawing room, still in a chaos from the earlier events in the evening and found her, his stunning wife on her knees and in tears.

"Let's get you to the kitchen," he whispered, lifting her. She protested faintly but already she curled up into him. Allowing him to carry her like he might have over the threshold all those years ago. He felt he might buckle even though she was indescribably light, but he refused his bodies protests. He wanted to carry her, rather than be carried by her.

He sat her on the kitchen table, reaching for the bottle up high, bottles that baby Draco could never have reached and they had simply remained where they were, out of habit. He took out some essence of dittany for himself and then reached into another cabinet for some fire whiskey and chocolate. He fed her the tiniest bit of chocolate; for Narcissa was not one to eat chocolate at the best of times, but she complied without complaint.

"Good Darling," he whispered, lifting the glass to her mouth, "There's nothing more for the Crucio than some whiskey and chocolate. Isn't that what you always tell me?"

"You should know enough," she joked weakly, leaning against his shoulder as she closed her eyes. He lifted her head and smiled, then placed a chaste kiss on her lips. He then sat himself down on the chair before her and started to put the little potion on his wounds, which scabbed over in an instant. She smiled gently, then took the cloth from his hands and divested the potion on his wounds herself, being much more tender than he managed to be with himself. He smiled softly at her.

"You're a mess," she whispered, half in dismay and trying to make light.

"I know, but scars will heal," he stilled her hand where she had been administering to a laceration on his chest, he lifted her hand and grazed her knuckles with a kiss, "We know."

Into his eyes had returned that arrogance that she so loved, that smug darkness. This freedom for the Torment of The Dark Lord, however brief was a relief for them. Lucius smiled in his customary manner and then dropped her hands.

"You feel better?" He questioned, resting his head back.

"A little," she muttered.

"Where is Draco?" Lucius question, bringing his eyes to meet hers.

"I sent him out, I couldn't… but he went to his room" she broke of, "The Dark Lord was going to do something to me, well curse me, so I sent him out."

"Wise dear," he said softly, "I shall send one of the elf's for him."

He didn't experience anger at his wife's being tortured, he had known it would happen – nor would he admit to her the way she had dealt with it was admirable; she already knew that. But he smiled at her anyway because he wanted her to know how he felt for her. Maybe she seen it in his eyes, he couldn't tell but she had seen it anyway and reached out a gentle hand to graze his cheek.

"How are you?" She questioned looking into his eyes. He turned his face away from her because he couldn't bear those eyes when they were so deep.

"Fine, Narcissa…"

"Lucius don't be distant with me…" she said softly, not betraying any emotion at all, "Look at me."

"No," he stood up and the moment was gone, so he didn't have to struggle with the amount of emotion it concerned. The amount of guilt and remorse and depravity it allowed.

"Come to bed?" He whispered, offering a hand to her as he turned from the door. She took it, staring at him silently. She couldn't get to the bottom of the depth in his eyes.


	3. A Heart So Fatigued

_Hello everyone! And thanks for the reviews…_

He edged into the clearing, his legs struggling beneath him. He stumbled slightly, falling over a huge tree root that was protruding out of the damp earth. No one turned to look at him, not a pair of eyes met his spare hers. They glistened with fear and tears, with the sting of the smell of death. He wanted to crawl to her, for he feared he could no longer walk and support his body, collapsing inside-out. Maybe he could touch her and make it better but he daren't. The dark Lord apparated with a crack behind him and Lucius was compelled forward by a powerful charm and he couldn't quite see the faces in the dark. 'Such lies,' he thought bitterly, such liars these men were to stand here and risk their lives for such a traitor. But then again, Lucius was only like this because he was on the receiving end of The Dark Lord's wrath. He was bitter he had lost favour; he was disgusted at what he had allowed his family to become. He wanted to spit in that snake like face but he wouldn't because somewhat perversely, he still had those same pure blood principles – he just didn't appreciate their outcome or indeed what seemed to be his fate. He shook his head, trying through one eye – his less swollen eye - to find his wife's gaze again. To find those glittering eyes, those eyes now constantly filled with the hint of tears about to fall.

Her shining blonde hair glinted only in the darkness, the only genuinely natural light in the tainted space among the trees.

"Sit, Lucius," The Dark Lord commanded and though Lucius did not want to take this order - he wanted to defy and be treacherous - he shuffled up to sit beside his wife.

She smelled of comfort, of security as her perfume carried on the breeze and offered familiarity and safety. An offering of gentle reassurance and mornings in bed and nights by the fire. He wanted to walk with her, to lie with her, to eat dinner with his wife and son. Doing things they had not done for almost a year. He would get up again one day, kiss his wife good morning, go to work, eat lunch with associates – he wanted that again.

He waited for what felt like hours before she would look at him, before she would acknowledge his desperate presence. She looked at his face, his eyes, his mouth and smiled painfully. He shook his head, all he wanted was Draco, all she wanted was Draco… but he had not managed. A terrible feeling resounded through him and he pushed it to the bottom of his stomach, forcing that terrible realization out of his mind.

She reached out for his bloodied hand under his cloak, groping for his touch – he welcomed it. The contact with normality, the gentle strength under the rich velvet and brocade. He wanted to fall against her, regardless of anyone who might be watching him.

They sat like that under a huge tree for minutes, hours, forever - until the Potter boy came and Lucius had slumped against the bark, his eyes closing. He felt like he was falling, partially leaning against his wife and against the tree. The sensation of slipping away, his failure seeping into his blood and heart, cold and unforgiving. He had allowed his son to be swept into this, he had allowed his wife to be swept into the death and corruption and stench of his choices. He had failed to save his son, though he had begged, though he had been so desperate. Had he lost his son? Had he done this to her?

The image of his boy, his only child swam in front of his eyes, terrified and lost looking. Lucius wanted to cry out, to find out what had made him do this to his family. But he had lost all energy, his sensation ebbing away; he had lost all hope.

"Don't Lucius," she hissed almost inaudibly, squeezing his hand and returning him to consciousness. He startled momentarily as the image of his son evaporated into nothing.

"Don't let him see you are tired," she whispered in a panic, pulling his hand so he would sit up straighter, "Lucius open your eyes."

He done as he was asked after a second, allaying her fears with a delicately tortured smile and sat up straight though still propped against her.

He smelled awful, of raw blood and burned flesh. She wanted to turn her face away, to never look at him in such a way again – to never detest his physical form - but on impulse, she groped his hand tighter and held onto it like a last morsel of hope. Like a glimmer in an impenetrable darkness.

Lucius was very aware of what was happening, of the Potter boy coming forward, of flashes of light and the smell of fear mixed with a tinge of elation. But he didn't move, didn't jeer when the rest did. He sat impassive, apathetic and uncaring until he heard a movement beside him, his wife's hand jerk from his as she was dragged by an invisible force which ripped a painful cry from her throat by the Dark Lord's wand. He stood up suddenly, using the tree as both leverage and support for his body. He watched his wife, pale and terribly beautiful bend over the limp body of the boy on the ground, her curtain of hair covering her face as she followed the Dark Lord's command.

Seconds later she raised her head and with a look of triumph and happiness in her eyes and stated, with unbridled glee, that the child was dead. With unbidden horror, Lucius looked at her features, contorted with joy and could not understand. Potter was ages with Draco, a child, not a man by any standards and though he hated the Potter boy, he had come to realize that no child, especially not of his son's age should have to suffer this. This was not Narcissa; this was not the way she acted. She would have felt some morsel of pity at least, when he might not have. Even if she did share his views and ideas Narcissa had always been plagued by a gentle conscience and a motherly sense of care that prevented her from being as ruthless as her husband. Lucius did not approve but he did not protest her beautiful and elegant care that she lavished on her son, however cold she might appear, for she always divested it on him as well as Draco. He knew that a child, a child of Draco's age would have been a perfect catalyst to galvanizing Narcissa's conscience; he knew something had affected her.

Minutes later, he followed the procession, stumbling and still bleeding - terror building in him. If Draco had sided with the others, if Draco had turned against the Dark Lord it would mean the end of them all. He cursed himself, his son could be stupid but he was not so flippant when it came to self- preservation, in fact he was quite shrewd - like his father. His son was like him but he had always been glad that he had had his Mother's fear, her quiet disagreement. He had known his son was not cut out for it, he knew his son was not as cruel as him – no matter how hard he tried to emulate his father. Lucius had once been proud his son admired him, now he wished it never was the case.

"He is ok."

A whisper from beside him, the clutch of his wife's hand as she drew near him as if by some unholy reason, like a whisper of gentle but sinister air..

"He's in the castle," she continued, gripping his hand and smiling slightly.

Lucius paused for a moment, not quite understanding – not daring to believe. Her eyes told him to trust her, to have faith in her words and believe what she said but he found it hard because he couldn't see a light at the end of this abysmal tunnel.

"How-" she shushed him and shot her frightened eyes at him, knowing it would be too dangerous if they were overheard. He had to follow her blindly this time because she could mean redemption; she could mean he would see his child again and live his normal life. Paternal instinct flared up in him at that moment but he did not try to suppress it as he normally would, he embraced it like he might do if his child was standing in front of him. But he was not and that made all the difference, that made him believe his wife's incredulous statement.

Everything happened in a blur, the storming Centaurs and the Giants. He didn't care now, he didn't want to fight – he wanted to live. He grabbed her had at the fist opportunity, heading in the opposite direction of the castle back towards the forest. She stopped him with surprising strength,

"Lucius, what are you doing?" she cried out suddenly, dragging him toward the castle behind the throng of fighting and curses and spells.

"I –," he suddenly realized he didn't know what he was doing, "I have no idea…"

They turned swiftly, hand clutched together as they ran headlong into the throng of people and creatures alike, fighting and chasing each other into the school. Her grip was tighter than he could ever remember as he charged up the stairs and into the entrance hall, which was crumbling above their heads and realized that amid the thrust and push of the sea of people, they could not see their sleek, blond haired son. Narcissa began to cry her sons name and for fear of her being heard by someone not so considerate, he dragged her to keep her moving, to at least give them a running chance. They fled into the hall, ducking to avoid curses and flashes from wands. He would not let go of her hand, he would find his son, he would make it better for them…

They were huddled at the table, his body tight to Narcissa's, his hand in hers, his hand on his son's arm as Narcissa cradled her child to her chest. Lucius felt nothing, felt empty except from fear of retribution, of failure and a somewhat strange relief. The Dark Lord may be gone but had siding with Harry Potter, in the last moments, been enough? It didn't matter now anyway for he had betrayed his own beliefs, he had left behind his ardent and zealous truth and betrayed himself for love. A part of him was ashamed; a part of him had been liberated.

"Father?"

His son had looked up at him and he knew he was not what he had once been, emaciated and ill instead of strong and impeccable. The boys' eyes skimmed his features and he could read in his eyes the slightest hint of disgust at his deshevelled appearance.

"Yes?"  
"Father, I am sorry."

"For what?" Lucius questioned quietly, almost soothingly "None of this is your fault."

And none of it was, that fell on him. It was his fault that he had let it come to this but his choices had defined him and he would admit his mistake to no one, spare his son and wife. Narcissa reached out her hand to him, sweetly and slowly.

"Thank you…"

He stared at her, bewildered and shook his head, looking at her hand as if she had offered something way beyond his reach.

"I have failed you," he stated baldly and slowly, as if the words fell off his tongue like weights, "I have failed my family."

His son stared at him as if he were some odd creature of great interest that he must study or lose out. As if he had seen a side of his father that had just developed, which Lucius realized, it had.

"No," Narcissa implored, "No."

"Enough, Narcissa!"

It was not a command but a way of imploring contrition, of desperation, "Narcissa, no."

His imploration brooked no protest as he shook her firmly, "It's not enough to say sorry to you, I have failed you, Narcissa."

"You haven't," Draco suddenly cried, "I don't think you have. If you had failed us -" Draco looked at his Mother, tears cascading down her face as they stood huddled in the great hall, "If you had failed us we would not be together…"

"Lucius, please," Narcissa reached out her hand again, "I love you."

He stared at her and then divested his gaze on his shaking son. His family, however small cared for him and they were the only people in the world. He fell onto the bench, his head in his hands, his guilt and amazement at their remorse.

"I am sorry…I am sorry…"

_One more chap. to go then we're done._

_Please R&R, I hope you like it._

_Yours,_

_M_

_Xx_


	4. Epilogue : A Man So Faithful

_Epilogue_

_Dearest__Jott__, I__ apologise__ that you find my description tedious. I admit to being entirely verbose, I actually quite enjoy it. However, if you study the great Classics and writers, you shall find that their description is of the finest detail to add to both characterization and setting. In fact, Hugo indulges his description of the Paris Sewers in around 50 pages in his masterpiece, 'Les Mis__é__rables'. Bronte is fond of description of the tiniest detail, not to mention Wilde, Dickens or Orczy. Description is everything, no matter how laborious or mundane because it creates, in itself a characters' essence. I do not try to copy; just emulate the style of years ago because it is so much prettier._

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Epilogue.

Harry smiled gently at Ginny, taking her hand in his as they strolled down the quaint, cobbled lanes. The sun was setting over the little French town and he was deliriously happy, though mostly these days that _was_ how he felt.

They meandered quietly, speaking about pleasantly inane things and their first year of married life. Harry was turning a corner, his wife's hand in his when he seen something quite startling, familiar yet strange and altogether put of place. He stopped for a moment and motioned his head toward Ginny. She looked confused and then she paled as she seen the curiosity.

From side profile, Lucius Malfoy was still of the same baring, though perhaps he was stooping somewhat. He still clutched the ebony cane that Harry had come accustomed to seeing him with as he faced onto the street, his back to a shop window bedecked in fine black robes. Ginny looked at Harry, startled as she motion towards the infamous Mr. Malfoy with a disgusted look.

They had disappeared just after the second war, the Malfoy heir, Draco, studying abroad and his parents disappearing to somewhere in the Wizarding world. His name rarely appeared in the Prophet now; his wife was rarely quoted or pictured in Witch Weekly.

Just as they approached him (for there was no other direction to go back to their hotel) Lucius Malfoy turned and faced them. After a moment of recognition his face was displayed the same queer interest and shock that was inside Harry at seeing the once strong and powerful - not to mention arrogant and dangerous - man.

His hair was in a neat queue and he still had that strong and overbearing presence, though it seemed somewhat forced. That once shining blond hair was somewhat duller and whiter, shorter and receding. His face was still impassively cold but it was lined and shadowed and in places, hollow.

"Mr. Malfoy," Harry nodded his head, gripping his wife's hand tighter for reassurance of some sort. He was not sure whether it was his own or hers.

Lucius Malfoy looked shocked for a moment, as if he was amazed that Harry had spoken to him but then he recomposed himself and his face became a mask of impenetrable arrogance again.

"Mr. Potter."

His tone did not match his arrogance, not as much as it should have, at least. His voice was gruff and deep and though still drawling, sounded tired and weak.

"It has been years," said Harry conversationally as if this man had never once tried to kill him, or indeed indirectly, Ginny. She tugged at his hand, trying to make an exit but Harry wanted to stay, for some oddly perverse reason. He wanted to see what Lucius Malfoy had to say, if anything. Harry was not stupid enough to think that Lucius Malfoy was not an intellectual man, however misguided.

"Are you well?" Harry pressed on and Malfoy looked decidedly uncomfortable, as he tugged the cravat around his neck and raised himself up to his fullest height, as if he were ready to Duel – always on the defensive, perhaps?

"I never thanked you," he said tightly and took a verge in the conversation, avoiding Harry's question.

"For what?"

Harry had lost track at such a quick turn in conversation and he stared vapidly at the older man.

"For telling my wife the truth, for your grace…" Malfoy inclined his head slightly.

It did not seem to Harry that Lucius Malfoy wanted to say this but rather as if he was compelled by some disturbing nobles oblige. His eloquent voice seemed to choke slightly as he tried to let the words fall from his aristocratic mouth; he more or less spat them out with a thin veneer of manners.

"I-," Harry was rather dumbfounded, he didn't want to make this man thank him, he didn't want to gloat, "Thank you."

Malfoy managed a tight smile and a curt nod, "We would have fared worse if we-"

"Lucius, Lucius darling?"

A light, sing –song voice came from behind Mr. Malfoy and he looked momentarily embarrassed by the affectation from his wife. A moment later, Narcissa Malfoy appeared beside her husband and put a long, elegant hand on his arm. She looked up and suddenly stiffened, her hand removed quickly, her face suddenly haughty. She had lost none of her looks, Harry decided and neither time nor wars' had withered her. She was still tall and slim and ethereally beautiful as she stared at him, her eyes displaying a tiny tinge of curiosity mingled with discomfort.

"How is Draco?" Harry questioned, oddly determined to see if Lucius Malfoy had changed at all or his wife, who he realized, he had never thanked.

"He is well," Narcissa Malfoy answered, adjusting her cloak stiffly, "He was married last month. He works in England."

"Yes, I know," Smiled Harry, "I had heard."

"He is doing well in the Family Business," Mr. Malfoy continued, "He runs it well, he lives in the Manor."

"Don't you live there any more?" Ginny, who had been quiet through out suddenly questioned, "Isn't that your ancestral home?"

"Yes, but France is better for my husbands health," Narcissa answered before she could stop herself, almost regretfully, as if admitting this to Harry Potter was sacrilege.

"I don't sleep, I haven't since my time in Azkaban" Malfoy said slowly, as if he was weighing his words in his mouth, "I can do better business here on the Continent too."

Harry suddenly realized as he looked into Lucius Malfoy's face that he could see age and pain in his eyes, that he seemed deprived of the simplest things. He had deserved Azkaban but maybe he had not deserved the following events of the war.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said suddenly, full of pity for these two people, "Thank you for saving me that night."

Ginny shuddered slightly beside him and seemed to wriggle with discomfort at the thought of Harry acknowledging the help of a Malfoy. Though Harry didn't necessarily blame Ginny, in fact he completely agreed that she should not want to thank them but he felt pity for them and he wanted to try to make civil with them.

She sniffed slightly as if she were trying to control herself and Harry seen Lucius Malfoy placing a discreet and mastered, leather-gloved hand on the small of his wife's back as she spoke. A 'thank you' perhaps, a comforting gesture that Harry had realized in his first year of being married was very intimate,_ very_ loving.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she whispered, "But I needed to save my son, I would have done anything."

At that, Harry noticed Lucius Malfoy hung his head slightly to stare at his expensive shoes and Harry had the distinct feeling that failure hung about him, that his wife was trying to save him from feeling that despair.

He had never seen them like this, he supposed. He had seen them together a few times but he had never seen love in them. Then again he had never thought love could exist in a family like the Malfoy's until that night at Hogwarts. He could see them running through his mind vividly, screaming for their child and he suddenly realized that they were not so monsterous and cruel unless they despised you. They were perhaps so much more in love than anyone had realized – Harry suddenly wondered if his parents would have been like that.

"Well," Lucius Malfoy bowed slightly, inclining his head at Ginny who he hadn't dared look in the face, "I hope life treats you well."

Harry would like to have though this was genuine and he wanted to have faith that it was because he knew from the differences in Lucius Malfoy that he had not been treated well by life.

They left them then, after an awkward and unkind silence, because there was nothing more to say, Narcissa Malfoy returning to the shop with her husband and Ginny and Harry set off down the street.

"You feel sorry for him?" She questioned very wisely.

"For both," Harry answered, "I think he loves her as much as I love you." She smiled as he enveloped her in his arms.

"Does she return it?"

"I think so."

Harry secretly liked to hope that she really did and he had the smallest inclination that that was the case.

Lucius smiled gently at his wife as he sat the parchment in his lap and slipped of his glasses. He stared into the night, the balmy air, sprinkled stars on the velvety sky.

"Are you tired?" She questioned, lifting her tea cup to her mouth and sipping, her eyes still on him. He studied her face, lovely and pale and gentle. She was so beautiful, years had not withered her.

"I think so…" he smiled again, returning his gaze to her, stretching out his long legs, "Draco's letter was highly amusing."

He lifted the parchment to emphasize his point.

"Hmm," Narcissa laughed slightly, "Isn't it a beautiful night?"

"Yes, dear," he said softly, "It is simple and kind."

"But the little things, Lucius," she mocked gently, standing and crossing the moon lit porch to him, "They are so beautiful."

"Only with you," he answered deeply and for a moment his candour, so unusual, took her by surprise.

"Not on your own?"

"I could never be on my own."

"Even if you stopped loving me?"

"But that would never happen," he kissed her hand that was by her side softly.

"I know…"

"You do?" He took her hand again, and studied her wedding ring. She settled herself on the arm of the chair and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Yes" She answered incredulously, "After all these years, I think I have it confirmed…Have you no faith in me, my darling?"

"Oh, but all the faith in the world, all the faith…"

He kissed the side of her neck, biting gently on the soft skin.

"All the faith…"

_Oh, I do hate when I finish stories. I hope you liked it though. To all my lovely reviewers, you are so kind. And you make writing worth while._

_Please R&R._

_Yours,_

_M_

_Xx_


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